


Lines in the sand

by rainbowjaeger



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Airplane Crashes, Angst, F/M, Medical Inaccuracies, Oops, Pre-Relationship, just because
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-08
Updated: 2019-02-07
Packaged: 2019-05-19 21:47:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14881820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainbowjaeger/pseuds/rainbowjaeger
Summary: The team survives a plane crash and ends up on an uninhabited island.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SydneyMo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SydneyMo/gifts).



> From the prompt:  
> I had this idea of UNCLE getting stranded on an island somewhere. Not permanently of course, only for a few days until Waverly finds out where the boat/plane or other modes of transport was last seen. The whole idea makes me giggle, Solo starting to freak out just a smidge because he's stuck on an island with Illya, Illya being all Swiss Family Robinson, and of course Gaby being totally nonchalant about the whole thing. It's a bit of a challenge since it's not like other prompts, but it seemed fun!
> 
> I LOVE this prompt! It's a multiple-parter because.. Well, because I'm awful at planning so I started late and bit off more than I could chew with this prompt. Instead of rushing it I decided to stretch it out a bit. Hope you don't mind!

The heat, the pain, the yelling, and the feeling of somebody crawling from under him wakes Illya up. He can’t discern the source of most of these new sensations. The one he does recognize is Solo’s voice, calling for help.

The Cowboy calling for help. That’s not a good sign.

Crawling from under him was Gaby, whom he’d desperately tried to protect after the plane took a nosedive.

_Ah, so that’s what happened._

Upon opening his eyes, all he sees is debris and pieces of scrap that must have been their plane just minutes ago. His first priority, however, is Gaby, and even though hers is an injured Napoleon, Illya still needs to make sure she’s okay.

“I’m fine. Come help,”Gaby assures him after he calls out her name. Detachment laces her words, the way it always does when they’re in a precarious situation, one they haven’t been in before. A plane crash certainly ticks that box. 

Illya decides not to push it and crawls to where the cockpit had been and currently the location of their injured partner. Together, they lift most of the debris off of Solo and drag him out of the plane. Gaby goes up front, digging a path through the sand the plane had buried itself in during the crash, Illya following with a loudly-complaining Solo. He can’t blame him: the man has probably broken at least one of his legs, not to mention the amount of injuries he has (or any of them have) that remain invisible. The wobble in Gaby’s step suggests a light concussion, but if that and a few bruises is all she suffered from the crash, then he can be relieved. 

An unceremonious drop of Solo in the sand earns Illya a glare from their female partner. He returns it with a shrug. “It is getting dark soon,”he says by way of explanation. “We need to find or build shelter before we figure out what to do next.” 

“We’re somewhere tropical, I can tell you that,”Solo comments while loosening his tie and untangling himself from his ripped suit jacket. 

Illya looks at Solo and back at Gaby. “See, he can talk. He is fine.” 

“Speaking of being fine, how the hell are you two not injured?”Solo props himself up on his elbows, burying them in the white sand. As if on cue, Gaby dashes for the tree line and starts retching, expelling the expensive sandwich she had at Heathrow Airport. Illya quickly appears behind her to catch her wobbly frame.

“Probably just the shock.” The excuse falls out of her mouth, as usual. She still feels as if she’s the weakling of the team, Illya can tell, even when they’re stranded on an island and their American partner has a broken leg. 

“No, probably a concussion. Sit with Cowboy,”he orders her, pointing to the man still propped up in the sand. For once, she does as he says without objection. She must really be sick. 

“I will look in plane for things we can use for shelter or fire. After that, we will find out how to contact Waverly.” Leaving his hat and jacket with his partners, he jogs back to the crash site.

 

-

 

None of them particularly like airplanes. 

Most of Gaby’s experiences with planes before becoming a spy were from her childhood - from the fall of Berlin, more specifically. The sound of a plane engine usually followed the air siren and sounds of bombs hitting the streets above their shelter.

Solo’s plane-experiences weren’t all that dissimilar. As a soldier in the war, hearing a plane meant taking cover since you never knew if they were allies or not. Although the urge to dive into the nearestbushes at the sound of a plane had faded, he couldn’t deny he didn’t like sound of a roaring aircraft engine.

Illya was the only one without past traumas involving airplanes. His stature simply didn’t allow him to be comfortable during a flight. The cabin was always too low so he couldn’t stand up straight, there was never enough leg room while seated, and whenever they flew commercially, he found the stewards and stewardesses to be quite nosy. On top of that, plane engines were always so loud, he couldn’t hear himself think.

With the sound of their private jet’s engine suddenly stopping, one would expect the trio to be relieved. The opposite was true. They were mid-air on a flight from London to Guatemala-City with no plane engine to be heard. With Gaby asleep and Illya engrossed in the plan for the next mission, Solo was first to notice. Before he could comment on it, however, the plane’s altitude started to drop rapidly. 

“What’s going on?”Gaby mumbled, still half-asleep.

Not losing any time to answer, Solo sprinted towards the cockpit, banging on the door after finding out it was locked. 

“I can’t get in!” he shouted from the front of the plane. Seeing no other option, Illya grabbed Gaby by the waist and propped her up on his lap.

“Put your hands over your head like this!” he told her over the various sounds of the rattling plane. He demonstrated by bringing his chin to his chest and weaving his hands together behind his head. She nodded and followed his instructions. He enveloped her almost completely and looked out the window, seeing the ground approach quickly. Illya closed his eyes and mumbled the Russian prayer his grandma had taught him when he was young that he wasn’t supposed to tell anybody about or else there would be trouble.

The plane went down with a deafening crash, and on the other side of the world, in London, all connection via radio and trackers was lost.

 

-

 

Entry onto the plane wasn’t difficult, what with half of the thing ripped into pieces.Illya climbs in and starts rifling through everything that looks remotely useful. Sharp pieces of metal, containers of any kind, large pieces that could be used as shelter. Within minutes, his hands are full. He has mostly inspected the cabin, expecting the door to the cockpit to still be locked. The broken lock suggests otherwise. 

Illya barges in, ready to encounter dead or otherwise heavily-injured pilots. Instead he finds empty seats. The pilots must have escaped before the team regained consciousness, which meant they were roaming around somewhere on the island. It doesn’t sit well with him, but his partners have top priority, so Illya goes back to them instead of inspecting further like a KGB agent would and should do. _As long as Oleg doesn’t know_ , he supposes.

A flicker of light in the distance catches his attention - it’s a fire. And it’s right where Gaby and Solo are. 

_How the hell did they…?_

A feeling of uselessness creeps up on him as he starts to gather his findings and walks back to their camping spot. His teammates are injured and have already managed to make a fire, and he's back here on some scavenger hunt. 

“I gathered some sticks and tinder near the trees, and Solo still had his lighter on him,”Gaby explains when Illya approaches with a sceptic look. 

“I told her to take it easy, but you know how she is,” Solo adds, unwilling to take the blame. His attitude changes when Illya throws a steel pipe near his feet. He knows what is coming.

“We’re going to have to set your leg.”

 


	2. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not beta'd, so all mistakes are mine :) I'm sorry it took so long, I have nobody to blame but myself. It's short, too, but I think there's only two chapters left.

“Hold him still!” Illya calls out to Gaby. He has to admit, considering the circumstances, Solo’s holding up well. He’s almost bit completely through the stick Gaby handed him for when the pain gets too much, but aside from that he’s doing fine. He’s lucky Illya got top marks in First Aid class so the leg is set quickly. One side of the splint goes up to Solo’s hip, the other goes up along his inseam. The two steel pipes are bound together by some rope Illya had salvaged from the plane.

After all is said and done, Solo should really be grateful. But, knowing the man, he won’t be. Illya truly can’t remember the last time Napoleon thanked him for saving his life for the umpteenth time.

“Well, that was truly awful,” their injured partner drawls. “What’s next?”

“We should find somewhere to shelter, build a shelter if we have to,” Gaby answers, poking a stick in the fire. She seems steady; she doesn’t seem confused or nauseous anymore, to Illya’s relief. The concussion must be light.

“ _We_ are not doing anything. Both of you are injured, I will find sticks and what we need for shelter,”Illya corrects Gaby, mirroring her glare. This is not up for discussion, and that’s final.

“I’d love to help,” Solo interjects, interrupting their moody stare competition. “But I’m in a bit of a situation. I trust Illya can take care of the both of us, Gabs.” Despite his light tone, Gaby knows he means it. The most capable person out of the three of them probably is Illya, after all. He’ll never admit it, but he knows it to be true.

“I should be able to make big shelter for the three of us from supplies I found in and around plane. I will try to be quick,” Illya concludes, taking Solo’s compliment in stride. Building a simple shelter is something he’s had to do multiple times during KGB training and in the field. Usually he did so in colder climates, but a tropical environment often provides naturally waterproof flora, like banana leaves. Besides, the debris from the plane will be helpful too.

In other circumstances, he would aim to impress, but since the only people he could impress at the moment are injured and in need of a roof over their heads and something to eat, he’ll save it for another time.

Altogether, building a shelter costs Illya about an hour. Granted, it’s no five-star hotel, but it’ll do. He hadn’t missed the stunned stares of his partners after presenting them their home for the next few days. That is, if they manage to contact Waverly and don’t die from exposure in the meantime.

The building looks simple, but is really quite complicated to set up. A few dozen sticks and some metal poles are anchored into the ground and held up by each other, coming together in a single point about five and a half feet in the air. It isn’t dissimilar to a Native American tipi, Solo comments, except instead of cloth around the outside, it’s covered with palm leaves. Underneath the leaves, rope holds the sticks and branches tightly together through complex knots.

“The boy scouts taught you well, it seems,”Solo says flippantly. Illya stares at him, dumbfounded.

“How did you know? I was part of them when I was little.”

Gaby stifles her laughter and Solo simply closes his eyes in defeat. “Of course you were.”

 

-

 

“The pilots were not in the plane,” Illya announces. He forgot to mention it before, when shelter and fire were their priorities. They agreed to look for food tomorrow and try to sleep now. But sleep has never been something for Gaby, and Solo was still sitting outside their little house as well.

With great effort, Napoleon manages to turn around. The shape of his bad leg dragged through the sand looks like a crescent moon by the way he turned around.“Care to repeat that?”

“They must have escaped,” Illya elaborates. Gaby has joined the conversation in the meantime, turning around to lay on her other side, facing the opening of the tipi.

“But wasn’t their door locked?” she asks, the fire from outside reflecting in her tired eyes. Illya nods, affirmative.

“Waverly did mention something about newcomers in the crew. I don’t trust this at all.” Solo looks around suspiciously, as if the pilots would appear in his peripheral vision in that moment, solely because they were talking about them. “I’m sitting outside anyway. I’ll keep watch for now. I can sleep plenty tomorrow, it’s not like I’ve got places to go.”

Hesitantly, his teammates agree, and turn away from the fire to sleep. Illya’s broad shoulders shield Gaby from most of the light from the fire, casting a shadow over her frame.

“Can’t we ever have a normal mission?” she sighs, laying her hands under her head in some form of support. In response, Illya sticks his arm out for her to lay on it. He’s surprised to see her move to him almost immediately. In any other circumstances, she would have protested. He surmises she must be exhausted.

“We do not get normal life,” he answers after a few minutes, but his reply falls to deaf ears, he notices.


	3. Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, Diadema, for being my beta!

Slivers of light penetrate through the roof of their temporary home. Different parts of the floor illuminate every few seconds, changing when a breeze blows through the foliage of their makeshift roof. Drops of sweat have appeared on Gaby’s forehead while she was sleeping, suggesting the sun was probably already beating down on the island. 

She’d slept in.

Rolling over only confirms her theory, not bumping into the giant that lay next to her just hours before. He must be out already, doing…. survival stuff, she supposes. It’s not a stretch to imagine Illya somewhere, fishing or wrestling with an alligator. Solo once told her KGB training includes wrestling a bear, and while she’d scoffed at him then, she could see it happening. In a fight between Illya and a bear, her money would be on the KGB-agent.

Slivers of light turn to a full sun right in her eyes and she squints as she walks out into the hot, humid air. She can already feel her shirt stick to her back. What she wouldn’t give to dive into the ocean right now...

“I’m going fishing,”  she announces to Solo, who’s still looking quite pitiful with his injured leg and dark circles under his eyes. He’s fiddling with a broken radio and pretends not to notice how Gaby eyes him. She would have the thing up and working in under an hour, and he knows it. His leg may be broken, but his pride is still (almost) fully intact. 

“No need. Peril is already playing Tarzan out in the woods, looking for either food or the pilots. Maybe both. He didn’t say much this morning.” 

“Then I’ll go look for him.”

Her tone suggests that it’s not up for discussion, but she can’t fault him for trying. “You’ll get lost,” he explains, as if she’s a child. 

“I won’t. The man is almost two meters tall. I can see the trail he left from here.” Solo’s gaze follows her finger pointed at the trees. She’s right—a full section of bushes is cut down and stomped on, creating a fairly accessible path. 

“There are snakes,” Solo tries.

“I trust you’ll be done with that radio in an hour?” Gaby deflects, heading for the jungle ahead. Solo’s voice barely reaches her by that time, but she can tell he’s calling her name, telling her to come back. A light concussion meant out of commission for a day, and it’s a new day—as far as she's concerned, she's no longer injured and able to do her part. Though she’s sure that won’t stop Solo from scolding her when she gets back.

The tranquillity of the jungle surprises her. She suspected she would hear the sea, or the wind, or at least some birds. Nothing could be further from the truth; the forest almost seems lifeless, as if all the animals had one day just decided to up and leave. Could she blame them? She could see both ends of the island from base camp. Who or what would want to live on this tiny, humid, completely ignored part of the planet? 

Within minutes, a small snake proves her wrong. A step further and she would’ve stepped on the slithering thing. The creature is almost invisible as it climbs the tree just beside the path, its warm, brown colors blending in with the bark. It’s the first time she’s seen a snake, and she’s not sure what to think of it. As long as it minds its own business, she’ll mind hers. Time to move on, she decides, before she completely sweats through her shirt. 

A breaking branch and some rustling leaves catches her attention, and soon enough, her quickened step turns into a full-on sprint. Where she’s going is beyond her, it just has to be away from whatever is chasing her. It can’t be Illya. He's made the path she's running on, after all. The rustling is almost deafening now and doesn't seem to have a single source—it seems to be coming from all around her. 

A few hundred meters in, her concussion, as well as her poor stamina, starts to catch up to her. Her pursuer uses this opportunity to emerge from the bushes, and within seconds, she’s pinned to the ground, her face slammed into the dead leaves. The knee on her back forces nearly all of the air out of her lungs, making it impossible to scream. 

_Fucking Solo. He was right. She shouldn’t have gone out by herself, not with the two pilots still on the loose. God knows where Illya is as well. Where’s her spare knife? Shit, she put it in her sock, she can’t reach that right now, not with her hands pinned to her back._

“No funny stuff, or I’ll push your face into the dirt until you can’t breathe no more,” a deep voice threatens. It shuts her up quickly enough. The accent is American, but she can’t pinpoint from where in the States. Solo tried teaching her about the different regions and accents, but she’s suddenly forgotten them all.

A deep breath in and out. She can’t give up so easily. She has to think clearly, but with the concussion, she’s all over the place. One thing at a time, now.

This must be one of the pilots. But where is the other? He couldn’t have gotten to Illya already… _could he?_

Her thoughts are interrupted by her attacker flipping her on her back, holding both her wrists with one hand now. 

“Where are the other two?” he snaps. The voice doesn’t match the man, Gaby decides. Yes, he’s big, but he doesn’t look intimidating otherwise. His dirty blond hair is mussed and obscures part of his face, and his eyes are wild. He looks like he’s in a panic more than anything else. Whoever he’s working for, he must be a rookie. 

Gaby’s seen the same look in the eyes of the newer agents: they do as they’re told and put up a front, just like this man is doing right now. He’s probably around her age. Maybe even younger. She’d pity him if he weren’t in a position to murder her right now.

Somehow, seeing his face makes Gaby a lot less afraid of him. He’s just a young man making empty threats. At least, she _hopes_ they’re empty.

“I have no idea where the fuck I am after you’ve chased me around, much less where my partners are.” The man is taken aback by her response, but Gaby knows cornered men can lash out. She chooses not to push it. 

“Can I at least stand and get my bearings?” 

An affirmative grunt, and she’s lifted to her feet. He still won’t let go of her wrists, and he probably isn’t planning to any time soon. _She needs to get to her knife…_

Before Gaby can think of an excuse to have him let her go, he does so of his own accord. Confused, she looks up to see the pilot standing limply, his head hanging and his eyes closed. A familiar figure appears from behind him, absolutely fuming. This giant, though, she _knows_ she can handle.

Before she can speak a word, he points a finger at her, and then at the pilot. “Don’t. Touch.”

“The other one isn’t here,” she says flatly, as if she hadn’t been fearing for her life just seconds before. 

“Does not matter. We need to leave right now.” Illya takes several steps in the direction of their base camp before apparently realizing who is actually with him. “You should not be here in the first place!”

Gaby turns to look at the unresponsive pilot they’re leaving behind. “We can argue back at camp. Let’s go.” Grabbing his forearm, she tugs him along. The other pilot could be anywhere, hiding near them in the bushes or even at their camp. Solo isn’t in any condition to fight back, and Illya knows it too.

He curses, speeding up. At this pace, Gaby has to jog to keep up with his long strides. “Do you ever think, Gaby? If I had not been there…” He halts that train of thought quickly. “I understand you want to be seen as equal, but you are small. Skillful, but small nonetheless.”

“If I had gotten to my knife in time…”

“But you did not,” he barks, interrupting her. 

“He wasn’t going to kill me right then and there. Christ! He wanted me to lead him back to camp, and I would’ve figured something out on the way there!” She really isn’t sure where this pointlessly stubborn version of herself is coming from, because she knows Illya is right. She isn’t as big as her partners and doesn’t have as much experience. Illya, to his credit, isn't responding, probably having decided she isn’t going to relent. 

The trip back to camp is painfully silent, the crunching of leaves under their feet the only sound. She could apologize—probably _should_ apologize— but she’s too short of breath to talk. The tall figure in front of her isn't slowing down one bit, and she wonders if it is because he’s angry with her, or if he’s worried about Solo as well? Perhaps it’s both.

“Can you slow down?” she grits out, irked she has to ask at all. Usually he minds his speed to accommodate her. He complies now, though wordlessly. “What were you even doing this far out? You won’t find Waverly out here. I can tell you that much.”

Her next sentence gets cut off as she bumps into his back. He turns around, the honesty in his voice scaring her more than she’d care to admit.

“You think this is not serious? Your carelessness could have gotten you _killed._ ” 

“ _My_ carelessness? I wouldn’t have had to go in after you if you hadn’t left on your own in the first place! You think I went into this godforsaken jungle to skip around, picking flowers? I was worried about you!” If it didn’t strike her as extremely childish, she would have stomped her foot for good measure. 

“Worried?” His frown deepens. Gaby didn’t even know what was possible.

“This shouldn’t be news to you. You’re not on your own anymore. You’re part of a _team._. Besides, why wouldn't I be worried?”

A pause. It could only have lasted several seconds, but it felt like hours stretching between them. 

Illya opens his mouth to answer, but the cocking of a gun shuts him up instead.

“Hands up,” a voice from behind her commands. She and Illya both comply. The voice is a slightly-accented one, having a lilt to it the American pilot’s missed. Welsh, if she had to guess.

“Gaby,” Illya hisses, “get behind me.” She does as she’s told before a situation similar to the one with the other pilot arises. She doesn’t particularly wish to get pushed into the dirt again.

As she’s behind Illya, she turns around to see a dark-haired man with sideburns and a scraggly beard approach, holding a pistol. She isn’t staring down the barrel of it, as the man aims a little higher at Illya instead. He doesn’t seem to view her as the real threat here, which could work to her advantage. 

But if she doesn’t get the timing right, he’ll shoot Illya…

“What happened to my partner?” the man asks. She presumes he’s the other pilot; both men are wearing uniforms that would suggest so. The other man’s button-up was dirtier and more ripped than the dark-haired man’s. He probably let him do all the dirty work. 

Save for the mustache, the man reminds her of Alexander Vinciguerra. Same type of criminal—slick, thinks he’s better than everyone else, and above all, thinks he’s _smarter_ than he actually is.

“Did you touch him?” Illya inquires in a cool tone. He, too, doesn’t look fazed by the man. Unsurprising, since Illya towers almost a foot over him. 

“I tried to shake him awake, but he collapsed instead! What the fuck did you do?”

“Then, congratulations, you just killed your friend. You are not supposed to touch when they are like that.” 

So that’s what happens when you touch someone when they’re still unconscious from The Kiss. Good to know, probably.

Illya has to take a small step back, the man poking the barrel of his gun at his chest. “I didn’t do anything! You killed him!” He throws his hands up, obviously at a loss. She can’t blame him, he just indirectly killed his own teammate. It’s an opportunity Gaby knows she won’t get again, and without thinking, her hand grabs for the knife in her boot. A sharp pain shoots through her leg, likely having cut herself extracting the knife from her sock. Ducking under Illya’s arm, she lunges forward. The pilot reacts and fires, hitting a tree behind them, but it’s too late—the swift thrust from the knife has him falling backwards, the pistol dropping out of his hand.

There’s more luck than skill involved in Gaby’s action. She hadn’t aimed for any body part in particular, but had still managed to hit just below the heart. Had she missed his heart, then she had at least punctured his lung. Blood stains his white shirt quickly before she even pulls out the knife. 

It takes a moment before she realizes what she’s just done, but when it hits, it hits hard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some research notes (more accurately: things I Googled because this story is already so unrealistic, I feel like I have to put some real stuff in there):
> 
> The snake Gaby encounters is a Saint Lucia Racer. They're critically endangered, and native to Saint Lucia. The team is supposed to be stranded on an uninhabited island, but since this snake lives exclusively in the Caribbean, I figured it counts.
> 
> Gaby suffered a light concussion, which can't be healed in 24 hours, but after a full day you should be allowed to move around again. This doesn't include almost getting killed and running through a jungle, though! 
> 
> Also, we never found out what happens if you touch someone when they're unconscious from The Kiss, but believe me, this won't be the last of it :)


	4. Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember when we did a summer exchange? Yeah, it's been so long, I don't blame you for not remembering.  
> I have no real excuse for this being literally half a year too late. I simply apologize, and present to you: the final chapter.
> 
>  
> 
> This is not beta'd, so all mistakes are entirely mine! This is also the last time I'm writing a story in present tense because boy, I keep having to keep myself from switching to past tense and it's not great. If you see any inconsistencies in tenses... whoops. I read it over a couple of times, but some mistakes slip through the cracks.

He’s walking right behind her to block her view of the body, but that’s probably not necessary. He knows her, and she wouldn’t look back, lest the morbid curiosity get the better of her. 

“It’s okay. We just need to get back now,” he tells her. He promises her it’ll all be fine and he’s aware that it’s an empty promise. This time, he can’t make it okay. He can’t undo what she did, though he would give everything to not see this broken look on her face.

The walk to camp is silent—not the eerie silence Gaby experienced on the way there, but a quietness that occurs after a storm has passed and there’s nothing left. Silence filled with regret and ruined lives. She’s sure she won’t be the same after this. Her first kill. Had it not happened here, then it would have happened soon anyway. It’s part of the job. Waverly had explicitly told her this before she agreed to officially join U.N.C.L.E. That lost lives are sometimes unavoidable, whether it be by her hand or someone else’s. She hadn’t hesitated then, telling him she’d seen enough death in her life to be able to deal with it. 

Now, it turns out, she wasn’t so desensitized as she thought.

Had Solo been able to walk, he would have run to her side as soon as he’d seen her.

“What happened? Whose blood is that?” he demands, pulling her down to sit with him.

“From pilot.” Illya answers for her. She’s grateful. She doesn’t know if she’s able to talk about it, or speak at all. Her throat feels constricted, and she just about keeps the bile from her stomach down.

Over the past months, the team has gotten so used to each other that Illya’s few words are enough for Solo to understand what happened. Although, with Gaby so distraught and covered in blood, it doesn’t take a genius to fill in the rest.

“You did what you had to do, Gaby,” he attempts at comforting her. Shock turns to anger—he wasn’t there, he doesn’t know if it were what she had to do. 

“I went in alone,” she sobs, struggling to get the words out. “And now they’re both dead.”

“Both? What happened to the other pilot?” Solo asks, looking between Illya and Gaby.

Illya shakes his head. “Not important right now.”

“Well,” Solo starts after a few moments of painful silence, “I got in contact with someone. Not Waverly, but they spoke English, at least.”

Gaby wipes away her tears to look at him. She stares at him as if he just promised her the world, and it hurts his heart. 

“They’re coming to get us, Gabs. We’ll be out of here in no time.” Napoleon Solo doesn’t promise things often, she knows that. It makes this promise that much more important. He has to keep it, because she doesn’t know what she’ll do if he can’t.

She nods her thanks, and then slowly stands. Illya is behind her the entire time, ready to catch her if necessary, but she waves him off. “I’m going for a swim, I think. Don’t worry. I won’t be far. I just want to get this blood off of me.” 

Normally, Illya would protest and tell her that it’s a bad idea: she’ll drift too far off, an undercurrent will drag her along, she doesn’t know what kind of animals lurk in the depths. Instead, he solemnly nods and gives her her space. He’s the most well-versed agent among the three of them (even though Solo would say otherwise) and likely to have the longest list of kills. 

Still, what would he tell her later? Eventually, she will want to talk about it. Her first kill.

He remembers his vividly.

The first time is something you never forget. It’s a badge of shame you’re forced to wear for the rest of your life. Every time you look at yourself, a dark cloud seems to hang over you, a reminder of the life you took—and in the case of a spy, a life you’ll take again.

That doesn’t mean it won’t get easier, because it will. Oh, it will. Illya feels guilty that it comes easy nowadays. Of course, he doesn’t take pleasure in shooting someone, or stabbing them, or using other, less honorable methods, but he doesn’t think about it as much anymore. It’s become a part of the job, something that will happen from time to time. 

It will happen from time to time to Gaby, too. But he doesn’t have the heart to tell her, not right now.

He looks at her, floating on her back in the ocean. Every few minutes, she submerges herself completely, only to come to the surface in a different place entirely. If she hadn’t been traumatized an hour before, it would almost look like she’s enjoying herself. But her expression and posture betray her: the curve of her slumped back, her face that aged about five years in the past seventy minutes.

“You find anything edible?” Solo asks him out of the blue, as if suddenly remembering why they went into the jungle in the first place.

“Not much. Maybe I should search plane again. Should be some there.”

Solo nods, but before Illya can leave, he repeats his question from before. “What happened to the other pilot?”

A deep breath from the Russian. “He is still out there. Do not tell Gaby. She will panic again.”

The frown in Solo’s brow shows his dislike for the request—or rather, the command. “All right then.”

 

-

 

“Ah, Gabs. Looks like he found some.” Solo motions to Illya, approaching them with several cartons and cans in his arms.

He’d been gone for a good hour, enough for Gaby to drag herself from the lukewarm seawater and back onto the sand. She’d plopped down next to Solo, her wet hair obscuring her face as she looked at the ground.

“It gets easier,” Solo told her. It was harsh, an answer more suited to their stoic partner. For the first time in years, he simply didn’t have anything better to say.

“I know it does,” was her response. Of course, she knew. Waverly must have warned her. He can picture the scene: Waverly, standing in his office, a furrow in his brow and a paternal tone to his voice, telling Gaby she doesn’t have to do it, she doesn’t have to be a spy. That he could arrange housing and a job at a local garage. “Doesn’t mean it’s easy right now.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It was me or him. I’m sure of it. He would have killed me, or Illya, or both of us.” Her ramblings are more to herself than to Solo, but he acts as if it’s directed towards him anyway.

Honestly, Illya probably could have gotten the both of them out there. Maybe not without blood on his hands, but at least Gaby wouldn’t be sitting here with a blank look in her eyes and dried blood on her blouse. He’d never tell her, but what she did was probably wholly unnecessary. 

Yes, it would be best for him to keep that to himself.

 

-

 

Dinner, if it could even be called that, is spent in tense silence. Solo is still in pain, Gaby is with her mind somewhere else entirely (not that anyone could blame her), and Illya worries for the both of them. He’s taken care of wounded colleagues before, but in the KGB the treatment is less than gentle, and he isn’t keen on putting his current partners through that. Feeling like a fish out of water, the best decision would be to give them distance - especially Gaby. So he finishes his scraps from the plane, and tells them to get some sleep. 

“You don’t have to keep watch anymore, remember,” Gaby reminds him, eyes darting to the forest and back at him.

“Just to be sure,” he tells her as he sits down in front of the tent. 

She sighs, exhausted. She hasn’t got an ounce of fight left in her, he can tell. “Suit yourself.”

The night only drags on, and when Illya’s lids are finally starting to feel heavy, something shifts behind him in the hut. Gaby crawls out and plops down next to him.

“Can’t sleep?” he asks, rubbing his eyes to keep them from fluttering close.

She scoffs at his question. He, of all people, should know the answer to that by now. Nightly chess sessions just to keep her sane, aspirins next to her bed for her hangovers. No, her sleep hygiene is far from the best, he is well aware. 

He tries to recite what he’s been repeating in his head over and over. What to tell her, to comfort her. 

“I know what you are going through. It gets easier, if that helps - but, ah, I suppose it doesn’t help right now. Still--” 

“Save it,” she interrupts him. Her knees are pulled up, with her arms resting on top of them. Strands of hair fall over her face as her head is tilted down to the sand. “I know. Solo tried to tell me the same, and I’m sure Waverly will too.”

Illya nods, then mumbles a “yes” when he realizes she can’t see him nodding.

“I could do with a glass of vodka now,” she comments flippantly. A snort escapes her.

He takes a deep breath at the thought of a comfortable, no, luxurious hotel room, with a soft bed, a chess set and a stocked liquor cart. The latter would be for Gaby, but if they make it back, he might join her for a drink. God knows he needs it.

“Illya?” Gaby lifts her head, a hint of curiosity in her eyes. “What you did to the other pilot - The KGB Kiss - how does it kill them? Do you hit a certain spot on their head, or…?”

The mention of the other pilot (and the murder that supposedly had been committed) makes his blood run cold. He figured he would tell Gaby eventually, but he had hoped it would be when they were long gone from this island. 

Words don’t come out when he opens his mouth, but a noise from the bushes startles them both before he could manage any. Illya shoots up, perhaps more to escape the conversation than to examine the source of the sound. It’s probably an animal, but the thought of the pilot coming for them…

“Stay back,” he hisses at Gaby, who seems set on being his shadow in the search for the intruder.

“What if it’s a snake, or something else dangerous? And you can’t convince me you’ve fought jungle animals too, Illya.”   
Her sense of humour isn’t entirely lost, he thinks, and he smiles despite his efforts. There’s hope yet.

Swiftly putting an end to that train of thought is a man emerging from the darkness of the jungle and tackling him. Though he can’t confirm his assailant’s identity thanks to the sand thrown in his eyes, it would be safe to say it’s the other pilot coming for his throat. Illya usually isn’t one to be tackled so easily (although memories from Rome would suggest otherwise), the second day of little food and water are getting to him. He’s scrambling to kick his opponent off of him when he hears a familiar voice yell, and the next second, his attacker is the one being attacked -- by a woman half his size, no less.

A yell from Napoleon made him tear his eyes from the scene to Solo, who throws him a knife. It’s stupid he hadn’t had it on him in the first place, but he’s not about to let Gaby pay for it.

She’s caught wind of his plan, and jumps off the man just as Illya gets ready to jump him. The pilot can barely move, not with a two meter tall superspy pinning him down. It’s over before anyone can have a say in the matter, his arms going limp and face pale as his throat is slit in one swift movement.

“Best to leave him somewhere in the jungle,” Solo advises. “He’ll just wash ashore if we dump him in the ocean.”

Illya wants to say that there’s little “we” in this whole ordeal, seeing as Solo can’t even stand straight on his own and in no way will he let Gaby assist him. Although he doesn’t think she would want to at this point.

Gaby takes a step towards the body, takes a shuddering breath, and looks at Illya.

“You told me he was dead!” She kicks the head of the dead man for emphasis, leaving both partners reeling a bit. “You told me!”

Illya’s mouth stands agape, waiting for the words to magically fall out. He’s never been good with words, so not much is destined to come out.

“Peril, the body,” Solo repeats, more urgently this time. “This is not the time, Gaby, even though I have to admit I’m on your side here.” He’s rarely this serious, and it leaves Illya feeling very uncomfortable. Solo’s face without its trademark smirk is almost uncanny.

Nevertheless, he hoists the pilot up and starts carrying him into the forest, his dragging legs leaving a trail in the sand.

 

-

 

The evening heat is stifling, but not as bad as the mood back at camp. Illya had returned over an hour after trudging into the forest with the pilot to find Gaby in a worse mood than when he had left. Not that he’s feeling his best - quite the opposite, actually. The ground in the jungle was, though moist and muddy, difficult to dig into. The piece of scrap from the plane he’d used as a shovel had proved to be no match for the thick roots of the trees. Even in such a small spot, he could count at least twenty different roots, sprawling in every direction. He figures they would easily reach the beach, resting right beneath the sand his partners are sitting on.

Not bothering to completely cover the body with dirt, Illya had thrown some big leaves on the man carelessly, knowing nobody would ever come search on this island before the bugs and beasts had picked apart his body for all it was worth. And in this climate, that wouldn’t take long.

By the time he gets to camp, his strides have turned into weary shuffling.

Sitting down into the sand with a thud, he removes his shoes and dumps the sand out of it before putting them back on. Deciding it best not to press any matters, he pulls up his knees, circles his arms around and resting his chin on them. 

From Gaby’s perspective, he looks a bit like a sulking child, though she knows better than to say it aloud. She’s still angry with him, but the past hour had dampened the raging fury inside her to a simmering fire, not unlike the one she had made in front of their shelter. The fire illuminating her partner’s face, the shadows in the hollows of his face painting a worrying picture. 

None of them have eaten much in the past few days, and it’s showing. Solo’s wit is quietly dissipating, even if some of it could be blamed on the pain in his leg. Illya isn’t commanding them to do, well, anything. Frankly, it’s unsettling, and being the assigned “mother” of the group, Gaby takes action.

“Illya, how well have you searched the plane?” she inquires, standing up. Her eyes are downcast, focussing on patting the sand from her pants. She’s going to take charge, that doesn’t mean she has to forgive Illya outright.

“I have been multiple times. I think I searched pretty well,” he answers, a cynical undertone in his voice. Unperturbed by his attitude, Gaby takes two steps towards him and puts her hands on her hips.

“We’ll see about that. I’m smaller than you, I can climb into stuff. I’m going to check another time for food and other supplies, whether you’re coming with me or not.” Deciding that’s that, she spins, her ponytail swinging behind her. The ponytail has been in her hair for the past days, and she was afraid that if she’d take it out, her hair would keep its form like the band in it hadn’t even been removed. Even after her dip in the ocean, she feels filthy. The salt sticking to her skin, mixing with fresh sweat, doesn’t help much either.

“Gaby,” Illya growls, obviously unhappy with her decision. “Don’t. It’s dark - it will be dangerous.”  
“Why, are there more pilots you haven’t told me about?” she calls out, not slowing down. 

“Good Lord, just go with her,” Solo complains. Illya looks him over. He looks pitiful, laying down in the sand. His eyes are closed but that doesn’t hide the dark circles under them. The pain, lack of food - and perhaps, lack of women to sweet-talk into sleeping with him - are taking its toll on the man. Waverly had better come soon.

“Do not leave,” Illya orders, pointing a finger at him, before getting up to go after Gaby.

“I’ll do my very best,” Solo sighs. 

 

-

 

The walk to the airplane, though short, feels like it’s taking hours. Gaby refuses to speak if not absolutely necessary, and she figures Illya is too tired, agitated, or hungry to start a conversation himself. 

Or he’s just being his quiet self, she adds. There’s that too.

“I’ll help you up,” he proposes, most likely seeing Gaby looking up at the side of the plane. She had forgotten what it looks like, how bad it is. For the life of her, she can’t fathom how they had all come out alive. With minor injuries, even.

Still, as it is, the opening on the side of the aircraft is at least two and a half meters up, and, even with her agility, Gaby can’t reach it by herself. She doesn’t say anything or even look at Illya, just steps on the hand he’s holding up. With a boost, she climbs into the crashed plane, the brooding Russian right behind her.

“I don’t suppose you have a torch,” Gaby comments, then promptly shuts her mouth, remembering they were not on speaking terms. Damn her, she can’t even stay angry with him.

“You said you could climb in small spaces, Chop Shop. I would like to see you try.” Presumably noticing the crack in her facade, he pries it open further, teasing her and using her nickname.

Never one to refuse a challenge, she ducks under a collapsed cabinet and crawls into the darkness on all fours. Over the course of a few days, enough sand from the beach got blown into the wreck that Gaby thinks she could create her own private beach right inside the plane.

Also never one to pass up on an opportunity, should one present itself, Gaby casually slides a loose metal piece off of something. The clang of the metal reverberates through the entire cabin, and she throws in a yelp for good measure. Within moments, heavy footsteps move towards her general direction, but obviously can’t get to her.

“Gaby?” the owner of said footsteps has a voice, and it sounds quite distressed. Good, she thinks, serves him right. Just because they’re on speaking terms, doesn’t mean she forgives him just yet.

After increasing urgency in Illya’s tone of voice, she suspects he’s on the verge of tearing down the plane to get to her, so she crawls back out of the tight space with a trained casualness on her face. Dusting off her knees, she faces him, deeming him unworthy of even an explanation.

Finally seeing what’s going on, his expression changes from worried to annoyed, she can tell. The light from the moon coming through the airplane windows is dim, but not enough to hide his expressions.

She is firmly stepping on his pride. She knows it, and he knows that she knows it. Gaby muses that once a Russian’s pride has been hurt, he must do everything in his power to mend it, or else his passport will be revoked and he will no longer be a citizen of the USSR. The case before her is no different, and his reaction is, all in all, unsurprising.

“I see what you are doing,” he murmurs, and Gaby’s mind goes back to the first night in Rome, when she lulled him into a false sense of security, grabbing his hands and then using them to slap him with them. His expression, one of absolute betrayal, was the same then as it is now. 

Gaby raises her eyebrows, putting her hands on her hips defiantly. Do explain, then.

“Childish,” he spits the word out like it’s poison. “You are trying to get back at me for the pilots.” Likely seeing her eyes widen, it’s his turn to raise his brow at her. Am I wrong?

“I’m sorry? I almost got killed today, you almost got killed today - by the way, I murdered a man, in case you’ve forgotten!” She had been intent on keeping calm seconds ago, but her resolve was waning.

“I did not forget!” he shouts, his volume matching, if not exceeding, hers. If they aren’t careful, Solo would pick up on their argument too. And it seems he thought the same thing, as he lowers his voice for the next sentence. “I do not think I will ever forget. You could have been-” Something stops him, and it leaves Gaby astonished. The man doesn’t have much of a great range of expressions and emotions, so she thought she had seen the lot of them by now. But this one was new and she didn’t care for it at all; the mangled expression of pure fear and guilt on his face sent chills down her spine. This was not a KGB-approved emotion, that was for sure. 

Attachment to a partner is a liability. She knows it to be one of their strictly upheld rules.

“It’s not really your fault,” her voice levels down to that near a whisper, as if saying it aloud might awaken the dutiful soldier in Illya who would agree with her and tell her to be more careful next time. She doubts it would, though. She hasn’t seen him act like that toward her in a long time.

“I mean,” she continues, trying for levity and failing miserably, “you could’ve told me about the second pilot.” Judging from Illya’s expression (she didn’t think it could get any more heart-wrenching, but here they are), that wasn’t the right thing to say, so she thinks it over and tries again. “But also, you understood what I was going through so I would probably have made the same decision you did.”

Not quite believing her, but also noticing a newfound sincerity in her voice, he relaxes somewhat. He’s already standing at an awkward angle with the plane being too small for him too stand upright, with his slumping shoulders he’s absolutely towering over her.

Unsure whether it was the cover of night that gave her the courage, her fatigue, or simply the helpless look on his face, she didn’t doubt as she took his head in her hands, her thumbs making an attempt at wiping away the lines of worry that have formed on his face. “I’ll be alright. Please stop worrying about me. I’ll be fine, okay? I’ll be fine.” Repeating this like some sort of mantra that would magically solve all their problems, she stood on her tiptoes to make their foreheads meet. She won’t do all the work herself, she resolves. Should he want to close the gap, he’s welcome to. Though after pining for so long, she can’t fault him if even this would be too great of a shock to the poor man. She stifled a laugh at the thought of Illya frantically walking about his hotel room, not knowing what to do.

There was no cowardice to be found tonight, it seems, as he had but a moment’s thought before closing the gap and ending the agonizing game of lingering looks and touches they’ve been playing for far too long.

Though a coward he is not (nor inexperienced, Gaby notes), he is still careful as ever. It takes a bite in the lip for him to know that she really does mean business, and to deepen the kiss. By the time they let go, Gaby feels like she’s going to keel over. Judging from Illya’s expression, he must feel much the same.

“My neck hurts,” he comments, suddenly realizing the chosen spot of their first kiss was less than ideal. She takes a good look at him. With a crick in his neck, bags under his eyes, and an overall look of feeling very lost, he’s seen better days. The clumsiness of it all sends her into a fit of laughter, and after assuring Illya it’s not him, but the situation and ridiculousness of it all, he permits a small smile as well.

“We should go back, see if Solo is still breathing,” Gaby offers, making an effort to climb out of the plane. Illya is there behind her to help her down the final meter, and it’s like he’s always been there. With how much they’re placed husband and wife, it’s not far from the truth.

They decide not to tell Solo anything, since he will be terribly annoying and intrusive about it all once he finds out anyway. What they didn’t account for, however, is Solo’s ability to pick up on the slightest clues, even in his weakened state.  
“Kiss and make up, did you?” he asks with a wicked grin he was thought uncapable of hours ago.

Illya shoots a panicked gaze at Gaby, who just laughs at him

“It’s a phrase, Peril,” she reassures him.

 

-

 

It wouldn’t surprise Illya if some grand being was just messing with him, taunting him to make a move. His belief strengthens when, only mere hours after their escapade to the airplane, a boat catches his attention. A smaller boat drops down from it, and two passengers - one rowing, one seated - embark on a short journey to the shore of their little island. As it inches closer, he catches sight of a familiar red, white, and blue flag. The Union Jack. Though it bears the same color scheme as it’s American cousin, this flag was an infinitely more comforting sight for him. It meant Waverly managed to find them.

Setting the fear of the boat disappearing in smoke once he took his eyes off it aside, he sprinted to the tent, in which his partners lay asleep. He loath to wake Gaby as she’s finally found sleep, he has to. 

“Wake up!” he called out. “We’re leaving. Waverly is here.”

 

-

 

It turned out that the nearest inhabited island was only a few kilometers beyond the horizon, but the people living there didn’t often come this way by boat. Planes were unheard of, their island being too small for even a short landing strip.

“So I had to get a boat and come here myself. Well, with a bit of help,” Waverly explains, waving graciously towards the two other men on the ship who were currently guiding them to the nearest island with an airport. “She’s a beauty, is she not?” he commented, patting the beam of the boat proudly.

“It’s nearly a yacht,” Solo comments, feeling reinvigorated after receiving painkillers from the vessel’s first aid kit. “Where on earth did you manage to get this in this area, in such a short amount of time?”

“I cashed in a favor or two,” Waverly explains. Indeed, the day that Waverly runs out of favors, would be the day the world ends in a horrific nuclear war, Illya concludes. Though the nuclear war part might happen regardless, the cynical part of him adds. 

“Apart from the unpleasantness of it all, how was the stay? I imagine it must have done wonders for team building.” The Englishman leans back, fully prepared to hear a good story.

“Very much,” Solo speaks up before either of his colleagues can, “we’re all on much better terms than before.”

The joking tone of voice not lost on Waverly, he casts a glance in the direction of Gaby and Illya, who are both suddenly immensely fascinated by the sea and the deck of the boat, and smiled to himself.

“That’s good, then,” he concludes. “I suppose I’ll read all about it in the report.”

**Author's Note:**

> A big thank you to Diadema for being my beta!


End file.
